


like a body of air

by threelions



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, everybody's favourite friend SCURVY, when life gives you lemons eat em lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:56:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threelions/pseuds/threelions
Summary: "We are saved," he says, quietly. Roughly. Gently all at the same time. "James, we are saved."
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 32
Kudos: 105
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	like a body of air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simplyirenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyirenic/gifts).

>   

> 
> would like to thank ireny for this MESS  
first terror fic pls be gentle :**** 
> 
> for me 'scurvy' bingo square!!

These are the things he remembers:

The fabric of the dress, silk-smooth. Something aflame. A boy - what was his name, now - his best friend. The morning they woke up to ice. All that ice. And - the ships. The ships - his first ship, the _Clio_, fast and shallow - his cabin his own. They had gone to Bombay and - and - no, he had joined her there -

Francis's fingers on his neck.

The room is dark as he wakes. A room, not a tent; it has a ceiling, a lantern above. And if he is not mistaken - no, he is rarely mistaken, and never about this - he feels beneath him a gentle yaw produced only by waves.

Something catches in his chest. He hardly dares to think. His fingers inch down the length of his body carefully, slowly, much as he had done upon first discovering the damage. Here the scar. Here another.

They burn under his touch. He draws a breath, disliking the thoughts this exercise conjures; the end of vanity, the feeling of a newborn babe lying naked and defenceless to the world.

"Captain Fitzjames?"

This from a boy standing suddenly in the doorway. Twelve or thirteen, not very tall, his eyes as wide as saucers. James has never seen him before. Again a taste in his mouth he would not name. "Who are you?" he asks instead, his civility having disappeared alongside civilisation, but the boy says nothing; only stares.

Footsteps, rushed and familiar, echo from down the corridor outside. It takes all of his strength to tilt his head up.

"Francis," he croaks. "Who is this?"

Francis looks either like he is about to hit James or shed tremulous and appropriate tears. James knows not which he would rather, or rather not.

"You could be more polite, James." A pat on the shoulder sends the boy away along the corridor. Francis steps into the room, his hat clutched between his fingers. But for physics James would have bottled up the way Francis said his name. "He is one of our valiant rescuers, after all."

"Rescue?"

A flicker of incomprehension must have crossed his face, for Francis smiles, and in his smile is hope and sorrow both.

"Yes."

He closes the distance between them in three strides. Places a hand on James's shoulder, in it the warmth of the world. "We are saved," he says, quietly. Roughly. Gently all at the same time. "James, we are saved."

We are saved.

We remain.

We are here, still. Nevertheless.

It is his namesake, Francis's friend, who saves them; a sledging party led by Ross himself, so he is told over a dinner he cannot yet get used to. He stares at the food on his plate as if it were a stranger; slender pork, gravy, fresh bread softer than anything he has touched in years. He thinks it would fall apart in his mouth. He thinks it would disappear.

"- James."

He tilts his head up. They are all looking at him.

"I am sorry," he says, summoning every inch of the charm that once made him delightful company to offer a bemused smile. "I had thought you meant Sir James."

"Sir James does not have half as good a Chinese sniper story as you," Francis replies, looking at him strange. "Although he does have a knighthood, hence the different form of address."

"Come off it, Francis," says Sir James, laughing. "Give the poor fellow some time to eat; he has barely touched his plate. Anyhow I am sure that you two will be suitably honoured when we return. What a tale you will give them!"

And in the ensuing mêlée of gracious praise and gallant demuring James is spared the need to tell his story; in fact very nearly spared the sudden, terrifying thought that he cannot remember how it had begun.

Very nearly.

That night in his cabin he clenches and unclenches his fingers, watches them fold inwards onto themselves, and unflexes them, wincing at the stiffness. As if he has forgotten how to use these too.

He thinks: the place smelt of roast duck. What had that tasted like? Succulent, no doubt, and something crisp - a tart sauce to match. There had been something funny about the tea. By God had Mr Jackson not been able to let that go. What had that man's name been, now -

Roast duck, and eggs, and that had only been Hang-choo. In Singapore they had - he cannot remember, but it was delicious. He cannot remember. He takes a breath and it shudders through him like a sigh. They had - they had eaten by the roadside, some sort of noodle - fed the men. Feed the men.

Again he examines his fingers. How strange to be full. How strange to be lying the same way he had lain, telling Francis to feed the men. One is, he thinks, what one eats.

And he laughs, a laugh that does not become him, that seems to echo in his head long after he falls silent.

"You seem much better," Francis says.

James grimaces. "If I look it then I do not feel it." He has seen nothing but the cabin, the mess, the surgeon, and Francis's face for the past week; and while he is not averse as such to the latter, it still reminds him rather of a chicken trapped in a coop.

"How are your wounds?"

"As if I were Lord Nelson at Trafalgar."

They share a smile at that. James thinks, oh, Edward.

He leans forward, allowing his legs to fall over the side of the bed, and reaches for the hem of his undershirt. Pulls it high so that Francis can see the way the musket hole his chest has puckered, a thin scab forming as if he had collected it just last month.

If he hears an intake of breath sharper than would have been appropriate, he ignores this.

If Francis, after a pause and without looking at him, without saying a word, reaches out and traces the edge of the wound with steady fingers - and if he himself draws breath at the touch - he ignores this also.

All quiet.

He says: will you walk with me?

Francis helps him to his feet. They have walked like this, the two of them, many times over many years. He had not always treasured it, and it pains him to think of the time they have lost to misunderstanding.

"We have," says Francis carefully, knowing him too well, "the rest of it."

It - the day? The years? There are questions for which there are no answers. They pause at the ladder, rope at both sides.

"Slowly."

Everything he does now is slow. He remembers - a walk, somewhere else, somewhere - Francis waiting patiently for him to catch up.

One step, and another. He determines not to look up, not to look at the slice of sky that waits for him above. There is only one thing he wants to see, now. The fellows on deck drawing back as he emerges. He has put his cap back on, wrapped himself in his coat, blinks at the sunlight that suddenly assails his eyes.

They lean over the side of the ship. He says, "I thought I might never look upon this again."

Wide open water. The blue as dark as their uniform, broken by shards of pack ice and the faraway wink of white landform. A gull whips past overhead. Everything beautiful. Everything still. The sea is so clear, so peacefully clear he dare not speak lest it break the surface.

"We are just now rounding Baffin Bay," Francis says from behind him, a quiet settling in his voice that feeds into the landscape. "It'll not take us more than seven weeks to England."

\- England. - It seems, and is, an age ago that they set sail, those fine first moments leaving behind the docks and the cheering crowds; he had spoken to Barrow last, who had told him with the utmost confidence that they would find what they were looking for. Barrow, son or father he cannot -

\- England. - "Francis," he whispers, gripping the wood of the deck so hard he feels a dull ache in the joints of his knuckles. "I do not know if I can bear it. Going back. We shall have to dance and drink champagne, put on uniforms and pleasant faces."

"You have a head start on me there," Francis replies, his humour calculated to ease; James has known him long enough to be able to tell he worries the same. "I was never good at all that, even before."

For both their sakes James laughs. "Don't be modest, Francis. You were all right at it so long as you did not open your mouth."

"You give me too much credit," Francis says, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face.

Then silent they fall again. Only the sea glittering calm before them. Fragments of a poem come back to him, smooth water, an emerald in a bowl of cream, a precious long time. He does not know how to explain this. It seems silly to think, too obvious, but still here it is: it matters not, the last four years. The sea has always been there.

Another week. They stop at Disko Bay and are greeted with much excitement; the whalers' invitations to sup with them are equally numerous and relentless, a sign perhaps of things to come.

Through Davis Strait, past Cape Farewell, another week, two. The wounds get no better. He cannot remember how he acquired them.

Francis.

Francis.

I cannot remember.

"It was a bad dream."

"It was not a dream. I could place neither his face nor his position." Having recovered some of his physical vigour over the days James paces the cabin with a speed that matches his agitation, covering what space there is far too quickly. Francis sits patiently on the bed, watching him.

"A bad dream," he says again.

Francis had been the one to shake him awake, calling his name low in his ear. It is the second time this has happened. They are nearing Ireland. They are - but he will not say it out loud.

He moves to sit down; Francis makes space for him along the length of the bed. James turns to face him. To look at him. The circles under Francis's eyes, persistent and perennial; the wide mouth, curled gently upwards; the crease of his brow. Francis must catch the meaning of his gaze for he flushes, but does not look away.

"Tell me something," James says.

"What would you have me tell?"

"Anything. Tell me how we met."

"Do you not remember this also?"

"You are being purposely difficult," James complains. Francis's mouth widens; he is more fond of making this happen than perhaps he ought to be.

"I do not wish to embarrass you." Francis knocks his knee into James's and chuckles. "The enthusiasm with which you told that cheetah story, when I thought it the stupidest thing I had ever heard a man do. Thomas practically had to force the champagne down my throat for fear of my saying something ill-advised."

They pause a moment to think of champagne.

"It was at a dinner just after the first round of appointments. You then followed it up with the first of what proved to be countless retellings of Namibia. Needless to say I disliked you immediately, and spent the rest of the evening as far out of earshot as possible."

"You spend all evenings as far out of earshot as possible."

"No longer."

The ship creaks; it smells of salt and sweat; it smells of a life he has known since he was twelve; it smells of something that he will soon have to give up, that he will eventually forget. He thinks words in his head as if a prayer: topsail. Quarterdeck. Ice channel. Orlop. Screw propulsion. Aft. Transom.

"I fear," he says quietly, "what comes next."

Francis says: what comes next?

Salvation, damnation, but two sides of the same coin - I no longer want to die, Francis, I want to live, but this body will not let me. Tell me. Tell me. I fear returning and my wits leaving me. I fear not being able to remember my own ships - the ships - the _Clio, _what came before - you see - I fear forgetting all of this, all of the men, all of their names. I fear forgetting you.

He does not say this aloud. To speak now, he thinks, would somehow to undo the rest of it, though what _it_ is he does not know. What comes next. What came before.

"Do you remember," asks Francis, "when I hit you?"

James brings a hand to his jaw. "I still feel the ache of it, certainly."

"A shame. I was hoping you would have forgotten that, if you had to forget anything."

Now he is brought to a smile, and something else from the same sorry episode occurs to him. "I also distinctly remember that I was not to call you Francis ever again."

"Then you have knowingly violated a direct order," Francis chides. "That is insubordination, sir."

He looks so pleased with himself at this mischief that James laughs. And it is the same sudden impulse that drives him to what he does. He could explain by way of gratitude, for Francis's continued friendship; fondness, for the time they suffered together; he could not explain it at all; the warmth of Francis's lips and the touch of his hand are explanation enough.

They will come into England on the morrow. The thought is difficult to wrap around; he has spent weeks on this and still come to no conclusion. It occurs to him to ask Francis, but then it seems something every man must work out for himself.

Still things fade. He cannot remember what became of the cheetah, or indeed how it had gotten aboard in the first place. Dundy would have had something to do with it, he is sure, if he could place Dundy clearer in his mind. His mannerisms. From whence that name had come.

They will come into England and it is the night before. Sir James's cook has outdone himself, or perhaps is a surplus that must be got rid of; either way there is a feast, and wine, and all of them in their finery. Their forks and knives rattle against the brittle ceramic.

Sir James is telling a story. James listens to the inflections of his voice, the way he moves his hands to drive home a point, remembers dimly himself doing the same in a setting like this not all too long ago.

"- James."

He is this time prepared, in a manner of speaking; he looks up from his plate, offers his smile, something of the old Fitzjames returning if the rest will not. His hands will not cease their twitching. A strange cloud settles over him, something of darkness, and he gropes in vain for a match.

"From a different lode, perhaps," Francis says carefully. The party turns to look at him instead, as does James, grateful for a reminder only he would understand -

Are we - trees, something about Roses - midshipman, passed - the Lisbon tower on the sea. - tell me - how did that cheetah story go? - we are saved - there is metal against his spine. He used to say he had a spine of steel. - Tell me. - Are we. - I would like that very much.

He returns. His fork laid to the side, his palm flat against the oak, his index finger curled up in the most minute of movements. The match struck for him. "Why don't you tell them about birdshit island, Francis?" he asks. "That's a capital story."

And Francis, smiling, does.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title from Ada Limon's Sway  
\- 'A boy' - William Coningham  
\- The [Clio](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HMS_Clio_\(1807\)) was a brig sloop which is described as [fast and meant for shallow waters](https://weaponsandwarcraft.wordpress.com/2016/09/22/the-sloop-the-overlooked-pirate-ship/)  
\- [a map to help me get me bearings](https://i.cbc.ca/1.3764187.1504878213!/fileImage/httpImage/image.jpg_gen/derivatives/original_780/erebus-and-terror-wrecks-found-map.jpg) and figure out how [Ross's 1848 expedition](https://www.jstor.org/stable/1796737?seq=1) might have found em (i did not)  
\- officers' food: [x](https://www.pressherald.com/2009/02/17/sample-19th-century-sailors-food-with-food-historian/) [x](https://www.warhistoryonline.com/world-war-i/looking-back-understand-importance-battle-jutland-x.html)  
\- [Cornwallis Poem Reference!](https://hangingfire.net/2019/03/the-voyage-of-h-m-s-cornwallis/)  
\- Mr Jackson was literally the first name i saw upon opening Mystery Man (p. 128)  
\- Hang-Choo is HANGZHOU god james get with the pinyin  
\- Singapore has very good food wiggls  
\- [map of cabins](http://www.ric.edu/faculty/rpotter/aglooka/Scattered_Memories.pdf) (p. 12) & [another one](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/60/ENTERPRISE_1848_RMG_J7307.jpg)  
\- bed cabin refs: [x](http://buildingterror.blogspot.com/2014/09/captain-croziers-bed-cabin.html) [x](https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iRHfsYbQ0uM/WuWb5NNDnJI/AAAAAAAABhA/0PQ_te1zrz0dh1bpUBD42T60RE9vbnsBQCLcBGAs/s640/Illustrated%2BLondon%2BNews%2BOfficer%2BCabin.JPG)  
\- [yeh they didn't have windows](https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0gyvzt41VuM/VAUCmQhx91I/AAAAAAAAAgk/lfdCHvECp5w/s1600/HMS%2BTerror%2B1845%2BStarboard%2BBerthing%2BPlan%2B\(Small\)%2B\(2\).jpg)  
\- [shirts](http://shadyislepirates.com/?q=node/158)  
\- [the extent of my science](https://www.reddit.com/r/askscience/comments/rtv03/ive_that_heard_scurvy_can_turn_old_scars_back/)  
\- [guessin those blue lines be ladders??](https://collections.rmg.co.uk/collections/objects/86344.html)  
\- lest it break the surface - reference to rhyme of the ancient mariner awyis  
\- [tryna check me MONTHS and ROUTES](https://www-tc.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/arctic/images/expe-nonflash.jpg)  
\- Battersby says frauncis n jeames had never met before heck  
\- [Transom](http://buildingterror.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2018-05-10T15:25:00-07:00&max-results=7) is the?? back??  
\- bitches did get a cheetah u absolute dumbasses
> 
> thanks for reading I rly appreciate it!!


End file.
